Spooning Daisy (33 page)

Off the ramp and onto the dock. “This sounds like one weird movie, Daisy.”

Daisy followed Rita along the narrow boardwalk. “Yeah.”

Engines idling, the small ferry was gliding toward the dock. Rita hailed a deck hand, who tossed her a bowline. She pulled the line taut and the
Kachemak Princess
gently bumped the landing.

Minutes later, passengers spilled from the boat onto the boardwalk. Hanging back and out of foot traffic, Daisy scanned the crowd for the Wild Man wannabes. Not the family of five, nor the gray-haired foursome. And for sure it wasn’t the young couple whose eyes kept darting back to each other as if magnetized. A trio of middle-aged men with duffel bags and fishing poles looked promising, but Rita let them pass. More families, more couples, a congenial group of thirty-something women who made Daisy really miss Charity, and then a pair of flannel-shirted, all-American men—father and son?—veered toward Rita as the remaining passengers headed toward solid ground.

A hug for Rita from the older, distinguished man, a handshake from the younger, and Daisy knew they’d found their wild men.

Rita waved Daisy over. Going against the current of passengers, Daisy joined them.

“This is Commander Knife Newton. Chef Daisy is our four-star chef.”

“Call me Pete,” the former commander corrected. “No one calls me Knife except at reunions. This is my son-in-law, Dylan James.”

Handshakes all around and the four trekked down the dock, up the ramp, and across the dirt lot to the parked Land Rover, splattered with mud. When all the bags were loaded, Rita excused herself for a quick jog to the post office, leaving Daisy with the pair in the parking lot.

“Would that be navy?” Daisy asked about his title, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Thirty years,” Pete answered. “Annapolis into flight school. Great life except for the separations from family. My wife gets all the credit for keeping it together.”

With an answer like that, Pete was instantly likeable.

“But you’re making it up to her now,” Dylan remarked. He looked at Daisy. “My father-in-law owns a very successful construction company.”

“We do okay,” Pete said. “Personally I think Clutch is the real success. How can you beat this life?” His gaze swept the sheltered waters of Sedna Bay, then lingered on Kachemak Bay and the distant mountains.

“Clutch?”

Looking at Daisy, his pale blue eyes sparked with mischief. “
Max
to you.”

“Interesting nickname.”

“Actually it was his call sign in the navy. He always came through . . .”

In the clutch
, Daisy silently finished. “So you’ve known Max a while.”

Before Pete could get past a grin, Dylan warned, “Don’t get Dad started. He’s got more Clutch Kendall stories than Alaska has salmon. And he’s not shy about telling them. It was worth the trip just to meet the man.”

“So you haven’t met Max?”

“This is my first visit. But I’ve certainly heard about him. Sometimes I think Pete got the wrong son-in-law.”

Pete laughed and roughed the blond hair on Dylan’s head. “Ellen married wisely and we both know it.”

It was just friendly ribbing, Daisy knew, and Dylan obviously thought the world of his father-in-law. Gears ground to a halt. “Is Ellen your daughter?”

“Our youngest,” Pete answered. “And only girl. Our little rebel. There were times—”

“Dad.”

Daisy recognized the warning. Some topics were off-limits to strangers. But she’d gotten all the information she needed—for now. Pete was an old navy buddy with a daughter named Ellen. Coincidence? Or the opening line of a true story?

“So, Daisy, a four-star chef, huh?” Dylan asked, obviously eager to shine the spotlight elsewhere. “How did Max find you?”

“Actually . . .” She paused. “At a garage sale.”

Pete and Dylan shared a glance.

“But the official version is, I had a restaurant in Seattle. Was engaged to the owner. Was un-engaged to the owner. Otter Bite seemed like a good place to regroup.”

“Out here, a good-looking gal like you must beat ’em off with a stick.”

“Dad.” Dylan shook his head, looking embarrassed.

“You know what they say,” she said, preferring not to disclose that no one, save for Max, had paid her much attention. And even that had gone to seed. “The odds are good, but the goods are odd.”

By the time the laughter faded, Rita had returned, a stack of mail in the crook of her arm. Saying nothing, Rita handed Daisy a certified letter. “Anyone need anything from town?” she asked, herding her charges into the SUV. “Then let’s roll.”

The drive seemed long with an unopened letter from her attorney in her lap, but Daisy assumed it expressed the tying of loose ends. She’d known for weeks—after she’d pried into his duffel bag and found the correspondence from his lawyer—that Max had dropped his lawsuit. Her letter was probably official notification of that discovery. Probably a final bill. Probably a mention of his unreturned phone calls. Three, to be exact, in the last two weeks. But her days had been hectic and by the time she could get to a phone for a private conversation, Seattle business hours were long over. She’d have more time to put this to bed after the July Fourth celebration. After the barbecue. After the fireworks. After the two hundred rhubarb tarts. And then, this outrageous ordeal would be behind her.

Except, of course, for one little thing.

Somehow she’d have to muster up her courage and swallow her pride and thank Max for finally being reasonable. She’d have to manage a smattering of gratitude for something that wasn’t her fault to begin with! She’d have to praise his generosity in ending something
he
had started. And she’d have to do it with sincerity . . . and less anger than was churning her stomach right now.

For such a little thing, it would take huge effort. Especially in light of their last encounter. Eight weeks gone and she was still at the lodge and in her cabin, like a CD on continuous play. Truth is, she hadn’t expected him to be so concerned, hadn’t expected kindness in his crystal-blue eyes or warmth in his touch or gentleness in his words.

Of course
, he didn’t want to marry her; that was a given from the start of her charade. But she never expected the truth from him, never expected an honest reaction. Never expected her own startling emotions. . .

She had been only seconds away from playing the abandoned lover to Max’s unfeeling cad—as she’d planned. But what she hadn’t planned was the ambivalence gnawing at her gut. When Max sat with her on the sofa, his blue eyes intent, his jaw granite, his hands hugging hers . . . the tears threatening her eyes were not manufactured from thoughts of her departed mutt, Sophie. In fact, she had no idea where they came from.

Suddenly benevolent, she had decided to make it easy on him, to let him off the hook, to break their engagement that never really was.
Before
Max beat her to the punch . . .

“Daisy—”

“I don’t want to marry you,” she blurted.

A second of silence, then Max had answered, “You don’t?”

“God, no.” She turned away from eyes that read her like a polygraph.

“Not even a little bit?”

“I just wanted to watch you squirm.” She slipped from his grasp and stood. “Last night, you scared the bejeezus out of me. I wanted you to know how it feels.”

He relaxed into the sofa cushions. Relieved? Disappointed? Daisy couldn’t tell.

“And to think I came over to set the date.”

A second of silence, then Daisy had said, “You did?”

“God, no.” He grinned, although his eyes didn’t go along.

“Well, then . . . no harm, no foul,” she said with more air than a spindle of cotton candy. “I better get to work.”

“Right. I hear your boss is a real ass.”

“I think he’s just misunderstood.”

“Yeah,” Max said, rising from the sofa. “I’m sure that’s it.”

Daisy watched his departure, wishing he would get there faster. Then, to her anguish, Max had turned at the door. “Move in with me.”

“Sounds like an afterthought,” Daisy had said.

“Actually . . . a
fore
thought.”

“Let’s just call it a bad idea.”

He shrugged. “I thought you might say that.”

“So why ask?”

“So you know I did.”

His last words had left Daisy speechless. He left her cabin and left
her
, or so it seemed. She’d barely seen him, and spoke to him even less, and always about the lodge. Was he avoiding her or just occupied with work? The days he spent fishing were long, she knew that. Sometimes late at night, she’d be finishing up in the kitchen and hear him in his office. More than once, she had headed to his door only to turn away at the imposing slab of wood.

It’s better this way
, she reasoned. She and Max had no future, so why go there? Why give her heart to a man who only wanted to shack up? She’d been there, done that . . . for ten years. Besides, she wasn’t even sure Max meant it. Had he asked her to move in
because
she’d say no—and thus be off the hook—or did he ask
in spite
of the expected rejection? Had he really laid his pride on the line or was it just strategy?

Trying to decipher Max Kendall was like reading Latin, and Daisy had other things to concentrate on—like the review from the
Anchorage Daily News
restaurant critic
.
He had been in her restaurant last weekend and his review would be in the paper any day now. Not exactly
Bon Appétit,
but it was a start, and better than working her buns off in obscurity with no hope of discovery.

Max Kendall was part of her past, she vowed . . .
again
. This time she meant it. This time—

“Here we are,” Rita announced, turning past the sign and into the drive.

“Wow, this is something,” Dylan exclaimed.

“It is something.” Daisy remembered the first time she’d seen the impressive structure with its herculean timbers and soothing waterfalls.

“But it’s not exactly the rustic pit you’ve been telling Mom about,” Dylan teased Pete.

“Sure it is,” Pete insisted. “That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.”

“Sounds like a conspiracy,” Daisy said, before the wheels in her head started turning. The brochures, the website. Even the Wild Man Lodge postcards. None of it conveying the truth. And not a single woman on the guest register. Ever. But women—and one man—going into and coming out of the guest rooms late at night; Daisy saw them when she occasionally walked through the guest wing to her cabin after the kitchen was tucked in.
Massages
, Rita had told her.

Daisy knew Jasmine, of course, early forties and gorgeous; she lived in the cabin next door. The other five masseuses, including Scottie, seemed to be on a rotating schedule, leaving and returning to the lodge every couple of weeks. Although late-night massages made sense—guests were gone during the day, returning with sore muscles—something about those women, and Scottie, niggled at her. Maybe
conspiracy
had merit.

“Ignorance is bliss,” Pete retorted. “My darling wife is enjoying a fabulous week at a spa with her girlfriends, feeling no guilt or envy at my two weeks
roughing it
with the guys.”

“Marie isn’t as gullible as you think,” Dylan said as the Rover eased to a stop in front of the carved double doors.

“
Pretense
,” Pete began, “is the foundation of a happy marriage.”

Rita cut the engine. “Everybody out.” She tapped the horn and a teenage boy slipped between the heavy doors to collect the luggage.

“So where’s our venerable host?” Pete asked Rita as they headed toward the entrance.

“I’m sure he’ll be here any second. I phoned him from the post office that we were on our way.”

“Pete, Dylan,” Daisy said. “It was a pleasure meeting you. Sorry I have to rush off.” She backed away from the front doors where Max was certain to exit.

Rita wrinkled her brow. “Where’re you going?”

“I need to check on something.”

“On what?”

“
Something
,” Daisy repeated emphatically, before turning on her heels and stopping dead in her tracks. For a breathless heartbeat, her eyes locked with the wild man himself; Max stopped, too. Then, as if Daisy didn’t exist, he strode past her.

Daisy breathed, and without looking back, continued on as the old friends exchanged greetings. As fast as she could, without actually
fleeing
, she rounded the corner of the lodge and willed her heart to slow and her breath to regulate. Then she released her chokehold on the crumpled letter.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“S
o what the hell was that all about?” Pete asked.

Max poured two fingers of Glenfiddich into a crystal rocks glass. He slid it across the polished wood to Pete. “What the hell was
what
about?” He poured a glass for himself.

“Old friends, new adventure,” Pete said, toasting Max, the rims of their glasses chiming before the obligatory taste. “You and Daisy,” he said after a second swallow. “As if you don’t know.”

“We don’t get along.”

“Before or after you screwed her?”

Max came around the bar and claimed a stool in the quiet lounge. In the middle of the afternoon, all his guests were elsewhere enjoying the activities they paid well to enjoy.

“Before, during, after—does it really matter?”

“Something tells me it does.”

“That ship has sailed.”

Pete sipped his scotch. “Interesting thing about ships . . . they return to port.”

“Yeah, well, this ship sank. It ain’t returning nowhere.”

“Sure it ain’t.”

“How’s Marie?” Max asked.

“As bodacious as the day I married her.”

“And Will, Matt, Steve?”

“All great.”

“And Ellen?”

“Sends her love.”

“The grandkids?”

“Awesome.”

“Business?”

“Booming.”

“You?”

“Like a clam in sand.”

“Then all is right with the world.” Max took another swallow.